Ring of Fire or The Family Circle
by Swellison
Summary: Ungen Summer Fire Challenge. Three points of view about that pivotal night in the Winchester family history.


Ring of Fire (or The Family Circle)

By Swellison

Mary Winchester awakened, programmed to respond to any amplified sound coming from the baby monitor. "John?" she mumbled, although her husband's half of the bed felt unoccupied. She glanced towards the other side of the bed, confirming it was empty and then arose, muzzy thoughts falling roughly into place by the time she padded into Sammy's room.

"John? Is he hungry?" she asked the figure standing by the crib, barely discernible through her downcast, not yet fully opened eyes. She received a soft shushing in answer, and if she was more awake, she would've been miffed by the brush-off. "Ooookay." Mary let a little of her displeasure slip into her tone, but John ignored it, still attuned to Sammy. Shrugging slightly, she stepped out of the nursery and continued down the hall. The small sconce over her parents' wedding picture blinked and buzzed as she walked towards it. She stopped, impatiently tapping the fritzing bulb, frowning as a long-buried memory half-surfaced. Something about the erratic behavior of light fixtures…

Mary's attention shifted from the now-steady glow of the wall sconce's triangular bulb to the droning words she heard coming from the television downstairs. Curious, Mary walked half-way down to the landing, caught the flicker of light illuminating and then shadowing the lower half of the staircase, and kept descending. As she neared the bottom steps, she spotted John, conked out and snoring in his recliner. "Sammy!" Mary gasped, turning to race up the stairs, grabbing the railing and newel posts to boost her speed. "Sammy!" The long-ignored and almost-forgotten words of a stranger ran through her mind. _"On November second, 1983 don't get out of bed. No matter what you hear, or what you see. Promise me you won't get out of bed."_

"Sammy!" she cried again as she ran through the nursery door, grasping at the doorjamb to halt her mad dash. Mary straightened as the stranger in front of the crib turned to face her, and she caught a glimpse of his tell-tale yellow eyes. "It's you!"

She stepped towards him, her no longer dormant hunter's instincts melding with her protective mother mode into pure menacing fury. The yellow-eyed demon merely jerked his head and she was suddenly yanked sideways, thrown hard against the wall to the right of the doorway. Seconds later, she was stunned to feel herself being dragged/pushed/compelled upward, her bare feet leaving the floor as she rose along the wall, her back feeling every slight imperfection in the painted sheetrock as she was steadily inched towards the ceiling. It hurt and she grimaced, groaning in pain a couple of times. She didn't scream until her head bumped the ceiling and then was forced to duck and bend ninety degrees as she was pushed outwards on the ceiling.

She was suspended in the middle of the room, arms outstretched and stiffly pinned to the ceiling, one leg bent awkwardly at the knee, every bit of her flattened against the ceiling by an invisible, supernatural force. Her position left her with a bird's-eye view of Sammy's crib.

"Always a pleasure to see you, Mary. The years have been kind to you." She heard the demon's words, but he kept all his attention on Sammy, not even bothering to face her as he addressed her.

Mary's eyes widened and her heart beat frantically as she watched the demon below. He held his hand out over the crib—over Sammy—and blood dripped from his cut arm into her baby's open, accepting mouth.

"That's a good boy," the demon almost cooed to Sammy, "you drank it all down. Now, we'll just top it off with some of Mom's milk, and we're done, kiddo."

Instantly, Mary felt a sharp, agonizing white-hot pain—like a dozen swords slicing across her belly simultaneously in a dozen different arcs. "Noooooooooo!" She withdrew her attention from the demon and Sammy and glanced down her body, thoughts freezing as she took in the thick swath of blood that her abdomen had become. Numbly, she watched as her blood dripped from her belly and into Sammy's still-opened mouth. She was in so much pain that she could no longer really feel it, her mind apparently bypassing the pain circuit to preserve sanity.

The demon cocked his head towards the doorway and Mary heard John's footsteps pounding down the hallway. In the blink of an eye, the demon vanished.

The sudden absence of the shadowy presence over the crib caused Sammy to wriggle and fuss. Her baby moved slightly, a couple of inches closer to the windowed side of the crib, Mary's blood dropping harmlessly and unexpectedly slowly onto the airplane-themed baby sheet.

"Mary!" John ran into the room, slamming the door into the wall as he entered. He glanced quickly to the left and right, and then strode over to the baby's crib. "Hey, sweetheart," Mary heard him murmur as his hand reached into the crib and touched the red blob on the sheet next to Sammy's head.

Mary saw the next drop of blood land on the top of John's hand and seconds later, he jerked his head upwards, staring in disbelief at her rigid form. Mary observed in helpless silence as John collapsed to the floor in shock, unable to take his gaze away from her body, pinned and trapped on the ceiling.

"Nooo! Mary!"

She had a feeling that John would've continued to stare at her forever, but suddenly the ceiling burst into flames, haloing out in all directions from her. The immediate danger must've knocked John into Marine mode. He pushed himself up on his braced hands, bent over Sammy's crib, and bundled up the crying baby in blankets. As the fire increased in strength, huge billowing flames completely engulfing the ceiling and smaller tongues of flame beginning to claim her body, Mary watched John stride determinedly out of the room. She didn't know why she was still alive and functioning, but she was.

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can!" She clearly heard John yelling orders at Dean from down the hallway. "Don't look back. NOW, Dean, go!"

Seconds later, Mary saw John re-enter the nursery, her vision blurred and teary-eyed from the smoke and flames that were slowing burying her in fire. She saw John step further into the room, crying her name out loud as he avoided the flames that cascaded down the walls and licked at the baby furniture. Despite the determination that Mary saw and felt in his every step she knew that her husband couldn't save her. He could certainly die trying, though. _"No, John! Go back, get out!" _She screamed at him mentally, and a thick arm of fire lashed out towards John, as if underlying her wishes.

John's hands rose to shield his face and he retreated to the door, finally concerned with his own life and safety.

Mary's last thoughts trailed John out the door as she gave herself up to the flames._ "I'm sorry, my darling. My poor, innocent husband. I'm leaving this mess behind and you'll have to pick up the pieces…Take care of our boys. Keep Sammy safe…I should've warned you."_

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"That boy… I mean, he has such powerful abilities." Missouri set her purse on the dining room table and continued towards the living room, brushing against the pulled-back strings of beads that marked the boundary between the living and dining rooms. "Why he couldn't sense his own father, I have no idea." Missouri said as she stepped into her living room, her words challenging John.

John could almost sense what the psychic was thinking; _Bet he'd know if Dean was hiding nearby in seconds. _Or maybe it was his own mind, pointing out the glaring difference between how Sammy reacted/interacted with Dean and with him. John was seated on the edge of the couch, knees almost touching the coffee table, elbows resting on his thighs. He pressed his palms together. "Mary's spirit, do you really think she saved the boys?"

"I do." Missouri's lips compressed. "John Winchester, I could just slap you."

John's finger idly rubbed against the wedding ring still on his left hand, the ring that he never took off, even after twenty-two years of being a widower.

"Why don't you go talk to your children?" Missouri asked, exasperated.

"I want to," John confessed, still fiddling with his wedding ring. "You have no idea how much I want to see 'em. But I can't. Not yet." His voice hardened. "Not until I know the truth."

"The truth." Missouri echoed. "The truth is your boys think you abandoned them."

"No! I didn't—" John protested, but then he quieted, remembering that Missouri had touched Sam's hand and felt his thoughts. "Dean knows better." But he had a flash of doubt, even about that. He heard again Dean's words on his voicemail: _"…we're in Lawrence. And there's something in our old house. I don't know if it's the thing that killed Mom or not, but… I don't know what to do. So, whatever you're doin', if you could just get here. Please. I need your help, Dad." _

And he had come. But he'd stayed in the shadows, learning about the events in their old house second-hand, overhearing his boys talking with Missouri. Suddenly, that wasn't good enough. He cleared his throat. "I want to see the house."

"You can drive by it anytime."

John grimaced. "You know what I mean."

"Yes," Missouri admitted, then grumbled lightly. "Jenny should start charging admission." She gathered up her purse from the table. "Well, come on then, John. Let's go."

"What, now?" John rose from the couch.

"You're safe; the boys are long gone." He heard something he didn't want to analyze in her tone. She walked past her waiting room area/foyer, throwing over her shoulder. "We're stopping at the hardware store. Jenny's new door is being delivered this afternoon. And she wants to paint the door molding black, to match the shutters. You're going to do that for her."

"How d'you know she wants to paint the door?"

Missouri tutt-tutted. "John, please. I _am_ a psychic!"

Three hours later, John was meticulously painting the newly hung white door's inset edges black. He'd taken his time installing the door, mounting it carefully, to insure a solid seal and easy opening. It wasn't like he had pride of ownership or anything; like Dean, he wasn't sure he could stand to be in the place for very long. But once upon a time, it had been his house. It deserved a decent door, at least.

At first, Jenny had balked at John installing and painting her door, but Missouri had talked her into accepting John's help over a cup of tea. John could've told Jenny it was useless to resist—Missouri on point was a force to be reckoned with, he knew from long experience. Jenny had seen the light, thanking him for his help and agreeing to let him tour the house when he was finished. He was pretty sure Jenny knew exactly who he was, but she didn't mention it and he sure as hell wasn't bringing up the subject.

John brushed the last strokes on the final door inset—the new door had six sunken panels, unlike the original door's four. He could only applaud Jenny's idea to go with a different door, so she and the kids wouldn't be reminded of the old axed one every time they entered their house. John spent a few minutes cleaning up the paint brushes, and then grimaced to himself as he recognized his actions as a stalling device.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the house, slowly and deliberately making his way up the stairs. Once upstairs, he almost ran into a wall, trying to enter Sammy's bedroom. He shook his head and vaguely remembered overhearing Dean's muttering about Sam's room being totally remodeled. Apparently, that had included repositioning the door along the adjacent wall instead of its original one. Seeing the modern white door with its thick picture frame molding, John cautiously opened it and stepped into his son's former nursery.

At first, the differences threw him. He knew that the room had been remodeled, but he'd been certain that something would remain of the old room. Now, as he cast his gaze over the white, little girl's bed and cluttered desk contrasting with the bright sky—not dull grayish—blue walls, he was less certain. John pondered the reflection of Sari's dresser in the oval mirror. Turning to examine the bureau, he saw the double-doored closet next to it. That closet hadn't even existed in Sammy's room, but according to Missouri, it was where Mary's spirit had been strongest. John hurried over to the closet, peeled back its doors and entered. He slowly rotated, lowering his guard much more than usual, exposing himself to any lingering presence of his beloved Mary.

He felt nothing.

Disappointed, John stomped out of the closet and into distant nightmare.

_John heard the door bang against the wall behind him, rebounding back a few inches with the force of his entry. "Mary!" Only quiet normality greeted him. John's gaze swiveled left and right, but not up. He crossed over to Sammy's crib and smiled at his son's bright-eyed baby face. "Hey, sweetheart." John reached to stroke Sammy's soft cheek. Distracted by the small red dab next to Sammy's face, he touched it instead, puzzling over what it could be when another blob dripped between the knuckles of his outstretched hand._

_Tracking the source of what he could no longer deny had to be blood drops, he glanced up, staring at Mary in mesmerized horror. His legs refused to support him and he collapsed to the floor, landing on his hands and backside. _ _"Nooo! Mary!" Just when he thought it couldn't get worse, it did. Flames sprang up all around Mary's trapped form, spreading outwards in all directions and crawling sickeningly over her body._

_Sammy's alarmed continuous crying penetrated John's horrified thoughts. His mind grasped at the only scenario that made sense; he was back in hell, in Viet Nam—and Marines died fighting, not whimpering on their butts. John sprang to his feet with purpose, grabbed Sammy from his crib, and escaped down the hall. He met Dean in the hallway._

"_Daddy!"_

_He thrust his baby into his older son's arms. "Take your brother outside as fast you can. Don't look back. NOW, Dean, go!"_

_He watched Dean fly down the hallway, heading for the stairs, then ran back into the nursery. Everywhere he looked, he saw fire. "Nooo! Mary!" He stepped further into the flaming room, only to be forced backwards by a thick branch of flames. Raising his hands to shield his face from the fire and smoke, John retreated in defeat towards the doorway._

Whump! John bumped against sky blue wall instead of open space and was disconcertingly back in the present, gazing up at the white beams that crisscrossed the re-designed room's ceiling. He drew a few ragged breaths, and then willed himself to breathe normally.

When he was calmed and collected, John quietly walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. He heard women's voices in the background, but the kitchen was deserted as he retraced Dean's steps into it. He glanced at the wooden door that Sammy had been pinned against and then spun around, his gaze drifting upwards to the ceiling—the second ceiling that had consumed Mary in flames. Different ceiling, same house, and same reason: to save the boys, save Sammy.

_I've tried so hard to find that son of a bitch, Mary…And when I finally started getting close, back in Jericho, I went to ground. Cut myself off completely from the boys, to keep them safe. So that that thing--that demon who destroyed you--won't ever find all the Winchesters in one place, won't have a chance to wipe us all out in one go. And because of that, I missed my one impossible chance to see you again…. I'm sorry. I should've been here. _

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The fire burned bright, illuminating the darkness of night with it fierce yellow flames. Dean stared at his father's tightly-wrapped body, laying on two hastily connected pallets over the burning pile of thick and thin-ish branches he and Sam had wordlessly assembled minutes before. Dean had poured the remaining whiskey from Dad's silver flask over the body, and then Sam had sprinkled salt over it. They had deliberately reversed the order of the ritual, to emphasize that they were cremating a hunter, not destroying something supernatural. Still, Dean's hand trembled as he lit the match and then released it to fall on his father's corpse.

He watched silently as the fire spread, the flames quickly enhanced by the alcohol-drenched body.

Dean heard Sam's breath catch and knew his younger brother was close to crying, if not outright in tears.

"Before he…" Sam stumbled, trying to get the words out. "Before he… Did he say anything to you?" Sam's voice trailed away, and then he continued, "About anything?"

"No," Dean swallowed. "Nothing."

He kept his eyes straight in front of him, boring into his father's funeral pyre. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he shifted his gaze upwards, seeking refuge in the night sky. The bright after-image of the burning flames rose with him, blocking out the sky and catapulting him into the last time he'd lost a member of his family to fire…

_Dean stood in the doorway of Sammy's nursery, his feet rooted to the floor. Everywhere he looked, it didn't make sense. Dad was on the floor, staring frozen at the ceiling. Dean followed his father's upward gaze and saw Mommy on the ceiling, what was she doing up there?_

_He heard Daddy scream. "Nooo! Mary!" And then the ceiling—and Mommy—burst into flames. Dean turned and fled down the hall, back to his room, wanting nothing more than to hide under the covers, safe and snug in his bed. His baby brother's wails followed him down the hall and stopped him in his tracks. He was going the wrong way, running away from Mommy and Daddy and Sammy. How could he do that? Dean gulped in a steadying breath and turned around, scampering back towards Sammy's room. _

_He saw Daddy come out of the room, carrying Sammy in a thick bundle of blankets. _

"_Daddy!" _

"_Take your brother outside as fast as you can." Daddy held the baby out to him and Dean cradled Sammy in his arms, the weight made heavier and awkward by the added blankets. "Don't look back. NOW, Dean, go!" _

_Grasping Sammy tightly, Dean raced for the staircase. Shifting his grip on Sammy and the blankets, he dashed down the stairs and outside._

The night air in his memories collided with the real deal and Dean was jerked back to the present. Out of the corner of his eye, he checked on Sam. His brother stood as if glued to the spot, observing their dad's still burning body.

Dean joined Sam in staring at the flames.

_Mom, I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough back then. I let you down and I'm sorry. Dad, I'm sorry you're gone because of me. Sammy needs the best protector around to watch out for him and keep him safe, and that's you, Dad. You should be here, not me. I should've stayed dead…_

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*****

So what did you think of this little trip down memory lane? Please review!


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